


The Human Beneath the Armour

by WhumpTown



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cussing, Hurt but moderate amount of comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mandalorian whump, Mando teaches Winta to shoot a gun, Winta is a good kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: "Winta,” she looks over at him, her heart beginning to quicken at the tone of his voice. Her brain becomes aware of the rustling coming from the woods in front of her. The Mandalorian rises to his feet, the blaster in her hand forgotten. “Run."She doesn’t. Glued to his side, she stumbles backward as the largest beast she’s ever seen comes from the trees. Its eyes set on them and she can feel it in her bones. She’s on her ass in an instant, the Mandalorians large hand finding her chest and pushing her back as his feet step forward.
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Omera & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 171





	The Human Beneath the Armour

**Author's Note:**

> I am absolutely in love with the idea of Mando dragging his sorry ass back to Omera and Winta and settling down and raising that beautiful little baby Yoda together

A hard kick to her ankle and Winta is thrown to the ground. She gets up quickly, the sharp pain in her wrist and shoulder fueling the raw anger in her chest. She scowls up at the Mandalorian. Her mother sings nothing but this man’s praises but Winta is starting to wonder if they can truly venture as far as to say he is even human. “What the _hell_ was that?” He’s pushing her every button. Unraveling Omera’s sweet daughter into the warrior he knows she can be. Into the warrior that he knows Omera to be.

Mando smiles under the helmet, satisfied with his own work. He keeps telling her all these important concepts, reminding her of the deadly weapon in her hand. Each of his warnings seems to be brushed off as if she isn’t soaking in the gravity of everything he’s trying to make her understand. “If I had let you shoot the blaster, just now, you’d be on the ground with a sore ass and a dislocated shoulder.” He crosses his arms across his chest, looking her over with a mix of curiosity and fondness. He’s hard on her but he knows she can figure this out. He believes she’s every bit as stubborn as her mother.

She sets her jaw as if to communicate she doesn’t believe him. Yet, she sets her feet back where he’d instructed and aims her weapon back to the woods. This time he observes the way she’s distributing her weight, where she tenses her muscles. He could still knock her down but this time the gun won’t.

“Fire when you’re ready.” She glances back at him in disbelief. He’s been hounding, berating, and knocking her down for the better part of three days. Constantly reminding her that one day she might have to take a life with the weapon in her hand. That things like this require ‘respect’ and ‘training’. As if she hadn’t put that together herself over the last week. She’s just caught off guard. Her elbow is bleeding down her sleeve, her knees are trembling with pent-up rage and adrenaline. She was beginning to believe he’d never give her the command.

It’s louder than he explained. Then again, he only warned her once about how loud a gun is when it’s in your own hands. Her entire trembles as she lowers the weapon and her eyes refuse to tear away from the tree. Behind her, the Mandalorian instructs her to do something. She can recognize the tone of voice he uses but her body refuses to move. Her eyes locked. Her brain is repeating his words. The advice that sounded more like a threat. 

“Winta,” the crunch of his boots pulls her from her mind. A heavy, leather-clad hand rest on her shoulder. It’s grounding. She feels her body leans against his, her entire body numb and weak. “The first time I fired a blaster,” he lets out a shaky breath. His mind betraying all of the memory. “I wasn’t much older than you.” 

He was an idiot. A child bent on redemption and revenge. A faceless mentor put the gun into his hands and told him to put actions to his words. He can remember the air being knocked from his lungs, the hot, shameful tears swelling in his eyes. He began his training to be a Mandalorian soon after that, just a boy amongst men. 

He clears his throat of the memory. Of the fear and twisted abandonment that makes his chest tight. “It gets easier,” the words surprise him and they’re coming out of his mouth. So when Winta turns to him with a mix of astonishment and disbelief he shakes his head. “It shouldn’t,” he clarifies,” it should never, ever get easier… but it does.” That hand on her shoulder squeezes her gently,” and I hope that it never does for you.” His other thoughts go unspoken, that he, to the best of his power, will never let it get easier for her.

Winta frowns at the dirt beneath her. Her head is spinning, filled to the brim with so many questions and thoughts. She’s thinking about her father. How many lives did he take before his was taken? Has her mother taken a life? She’d seen with her own eyes what her mother could do with a gun. And what of the Mandalorian. How many lives did he take, will take?

"Winta,” she looks over at him, her heart beginning to quicken at the tone of his voice. Her brain becomes aware of the rustling coming from the woods in front of her. The Mandalorian rises to his feet, the blaster in her hand forgotten. “ _Run_." 

She doesn’t. Glued to his side, she stumbles backward as the largest beast she’s ever seen comes from the trees. Its eyes set on them and she can feel it in her bones. She’s on her ass in an instant, the Mandalorians large hand finding her chest and pushing her back as his feet step forward.

All she sees is red. 

The Mandalorian screams. It sounds like a war cry but the cold chill up her spine begs to differ. She can’t tell if it’s his blood or the beast as he shoots and the beast smacks the Mandalorian with its mighty paws. 

She plants her feet on the ground. Her brain screaming not to do this. Her knees bent, not locked the Mandalorian’s voice chides, and her elbows lose. Her index finger locates the trigger but doesn’t touch it. She aims her blaster, her heart fluttering as the Mandalorian struggles to get back up. She shoots and everything stops.

“Winta! Winta!” Her mother is standing above her but Winta can’t figure out why. She can feel the grass beneath her fingertips, the cool dirt. Then she sees it, the blaster just out of reach of her fingertips. It comes rushing back, the beast and the Mandalorian.

She sobs as she’s flooded with emotion. Blinded by fear and grips her mother's shirt in both her hands. "Mama, I shot the Mandalorian!" She lets out an awful sob, " the b-bear or-or the monster it was so big. It was hurting him so I did as he said. So I wouldn't miss but I killed him!”

Omera pulls her child into her, burying her head into Winta’s soft brown hair. “Child,” she tries to bring her daughter some comfort but Winta’s inconsolable. She rubs her child’s back, holding back her own tears at her daughter's sadness. Mercifully, Cara finds them. She’s a sight for sore eyes, blood up to her elbows, yet her eyes are kind as they fall on Winta.

Cara lowers her voice, still to be heard over Winta, but not her usual boisterous thundering. “I threw him in the barn,” Cara motions with her head towards Omera’s old barn. “Not sure he’s up to a lot of visitors but…”

Omera nods her head in understanding and Cara clears her throat. She shifts her weight,” uhm, I’m going to clean up that ugly beast. See if we can have it for dinner.”

Gathering her child in her arms, Omera kisses her forehead. It breaks her heart to hear Winta’s slowing tears and soft whimpers. She brushes a strand of hair from Winta’s face,” you didn’t kill Dyn.” Winta opens her mouth but nothing but a hiccup comes out. “He’s in the barn, right now.” She stops Winta from pulling out of her arms. “Winta,” her tone is a warning,” he is not dead but he is not well.”

Omera’s eyebrows pinch at the way her daughter straightened her shoulders. Suddenly hardened, older, and sober. “I-I understand,” her voice quivers and Omera is thankful that all of Dyn’s training has not robbed her child of innocence and youth. 

Winta rises to her feet, her scrappy knees trembling beneath her as she runs. 

She finds… a man. His mask is still in place but he bleeds. Crimson blood drips from human fingers, his arm limp hanging off the side of the cot. Her earlier thoughts, all the things she had told her mother about his less than human qualities, and the children. The stories she had made up teasing him, making the children laugh at his oddness. _‘He’s terribly ugly under the helmet,’ she twisted her own face. Her lips pulled oddly over her teeth as she snarled and hunched herself to appear unnatural. ‘He that’s why he can’t take it off. He’d kill us with his ugliness.’_

“You’re a good shot.” His chest rises and she can feel relief flooding her veins. His hand does not move. Each breath he takes, she can hear. “Get that from your mother,” a hoarse cough comes from beneath the mask. 

She moves forward, her entire body trembling as each of his wounds becomes a little more visible. Tears burn her eyes. She can’t tear herself away despite the fear bubbling in her chest. Taking another step forward she reaches out for his hand. The limp hand. He coughs softly as she touches the long fingers. Her fingers won’t release his hands no matter how much her brain commands her hand to. “Did-Did,” she can’t see if any of the wounds are from a blaster. His chest is just a mess of crimson. 

“You killed the beast,” he squeezes her fingers. “As I said,” he coughs again, this one sounds wet and wrong. “You’re a good shot.”

“But-” her voice is raw with concern. No matter how he may choose to play off his wounds, she knows. As children often do. He can not hide death’s attempts to creep into the fire in his chest. So he shushes her as gently as he can. She tries not to cry but tears fall from the corner of her eyes. She sits beside the cot. His limp hand in hers. She listens for each of his inhales, feels his heart beating as she holds his wrist, and waits. Just as he waited for her and the blaster. 

A shuttered inhale.

Slow exhale. 

In.

Out.

In and out.


End file.
